


And the Heroes Always Die

by Veri4la



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Be Kind to My Boys, Dark Peter Parker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter and Wade Help Each Other, Precious Peter Parker, Spideypool - Freeform, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veri4la/pseuds/Veri4la
Summary: Deadpool stood up. Peter looked at him, then at the floor.“If you do it, I don’t see why I can’t,” Peter whispered. He felt himself stumbling. Over words and the ground. “I’m a bad person too. I’m not human. In comparison to other people, other people would be missed more than me,” Peter said. “I’m just a hero. Heroes are supposed to die.”Or: Deadpool being Deadpool, and Peter starts to copycat.





	And the Heroes Always Die

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because SpideyPool is my new addiction and I kind of ran out of fics to read...lemme know if you've got any suggestions. And also actually I wanted to make some commentary which I think you will get if you read it.  
> Not Beta'd. 
> 
> Read the warnings and tags PLEASE. This fic has very dark and very serious topics in it. Please DO NOT read this fic, if any of the topics are triggers for you and could result in any sort of hurt or harm. The opinions or words expressed by the characters are not representative of my own and please do not take them seriously.

Peter never wanted any of this. The innocent don't stay innocent for long, is what they say, and Peter figured that out when Uncle Ben died. And again. When Gwen died. And then with Harry.

Deadpool kept making jokes. Whenever Peter ran into him, in a fight, after a fight. Peter never talked to him. Spider-man didn't talk to anyone most of the time, especially lately. Only to Iron Man, because, well. Because Mr. Stark.

But Deadpool. Peter looked at Deadpool, and he could see himself.

Why do you do this? Do you do it because you are a hero? Or because you have nothing else to do, nothing else to make your life matter to someone, to try to feel the emptiness and the feeling of absolute worthlessness dissipate if even for one moment. What a selfish reason.

I am no different from Deadpool.

Peter thought this-- began to think this. In the dark and the red of the suit in front of him, he saw his own darkness and the whimsical fun of playing with people's lives.

He could lift a car. He could kill people so easily. And he had done so, on accident. But was it an accident?

Peter just wanted to sleep. That was all he wanted. But when he laid in bed he could hear everything. The slightest noise startled him set his heart thumping unsteadily in his chest. He stared at the ceiling fan and he felt the pressure falling into him.

With great power comes great responsibility. With great power comes great…

He just wanted to be good. The desire to be great is wrong, he thought. I don't want to be a great hero, I just want to be good. How can I be good? He asked this of himself over and over. He could start by being kind-- kind to his aunt, kind to his friends. But Aunt May was mourning still, ever since Uncle Ben, and she was always going to work.

And I don't think I can do this anymore.

The idea came into him all of a sudden that if only he were quicker. If only he could have moved faster then he could have saved Uncle Ben. And Gwen.

The more his metabolism ate at him, the more hungry he got, and the more hungry he got the more he ate. At first it gratified him, the taste the pleasure of eating. Then it began to trouble him. It's weighing me down, he thought. And could no longer hold the spoon.

I don’t know what I am doing. Peter wanted to swallow himself. I don’t want this anymore.

It all came to the end point, when Spiderman found Deadpool with a gun pointed to his head standing on the edge of a 50-story skyscraper.

“Don't,” he said to Deadpool. He felt a terrifying thumping in his heart. A weight that wouldn't leave.

Deadpool cocked his head. The gun bumped his own forehead. The black marks on the mask stared at Peter. Peter couldn’t swallow. “Hey Spidey,” Deadpool said. He grinned.

“Please don’t do that,” Peter said. Pleading. He could hardly hear himself.

Deadpool's mouth twitched up. It almost looked amused, like a cat. "Hmm...? And you think you can tell what to do...why?"  

"P-please," Peter stuttered. It was weak.

Deadpool danced further towards the edge. "Catch me if you caaaan."

"D-don't--" Then, all of a sudden, Peter went cold.  “Don’t fucking do that," Peter heard himself say. He stepped forward. "Or I swear to god, I’ll do it too.”

The change in tone, or the words, who knew what--but it made Deadpool's head snap around. He went still. 

“I’m not kidding,” Peter said. He was almost surprised at himself. I didn’t know I could do that, he thought. He never thought he could do something like that, wasn’t sure how people did it and was too--scared, maybe, too, nervous, to find out. But now that he saw Deadpool doing it, it wasn’t a part of the imagination anymore.

I could do that too.

And he stepped towards Deadpool. Deadpool didn’t move. The darkness of the night pressed into them, made Peter feel...stifled, he felt like he could do anything, he felt he did not even exist.

Peter stopped in front of Deadpool. He saw himself in Deadpool’s place, mirrors of each other, red and black, red and black. He saw the swords on Deadpool's back. He saw the guns in his hand. And he saw the edge of the building and felt the wind and the wonder that seized him, staring down at the lights of the city, millions and millions of people, that if he fell, would just keep on going the same way as always.

He realized that he had walked past Deadpool, only when Deadpool hissed.

“Whoa, whoa back the fuck up,” Deadpool said, waving his guns around.

Peter almost laughed. Maybe he did. “I don’t think you should kill yourself,” Peter said to Deadpool.

All of a sudden he was filled with wonder and sadness and a terrifying hollowness that threatened to eat him as much as it threatened to make it explode. He wanted to spread his arms and he wanted the city to fall into him.

Peter wasn’t listening to anything, he realized. Did Deadpool say something? I don’t know. Peter sat down. “I mean it. I really mean it.”

Deadpool was looking at him. Peter didn’t really want to be looked at. Felt that, he couldn’t even be looked at, not really. Because under the mask, Peter Parker doesn’t exist. And since, Spiderman is nothing more than an icon, a mask, a spandex layer, Spiderman doesn’t exist either.

“I’ve done it a million times before,” Deadpool said, almost carefully.

“Sure,” Peter said. He almost laughed. “Doesn’t mean you should do it again.”

“I don’t understand you,” Deadpool said. He sounded really awful. Really. Or maybe that was just Peter, projecting. Deadpool started talking to himself, then he stopped.

“I think you do,” Peter said, shortly. “Understand. Which is why. If you care about me, like you say that you do, then you won’t do what you were just going to do. Ever. Again. Ever.” Peter smiled.

Deadpool made a noise.

“Pinky promise,” Deadpool said, crouched next to Peter, and stuck out his finger. Peter allowed it. For some reason, he remembered playing Pokemon. Wanting an adventure. He still wanted an adventure. But not in this city. Not in this...place.

His heart thumping in his chest. Peter’s legs swinging around in the open air.

“Okay,” Peter said. At once, he wanted to go home. Or, somewhere. He could--think-- or, not think. Get things done. His heart wildly out of control .Fingers twitching. I need to get somewhere. Where no one else is. “I’m going home,” he said. “You better not break your promise.”

“No,” Deadpool said, slowly. To himself, maybe. “You’re not going home.”

Peter stiffened. “What are you talking about,” he hissed, head snapping around. He was not in the mood for this. He was tired and aching and felt so sick he thought he might just throw himself off the building anyway. Kidding. Maybe. 

“You just threatened to...” Deadpool said. For once, Deadpool seemed to struggle for words. He scratched his head. He looked uncomfortable. “Do something. Or other.”

“Yeah? And so did you,” Peter huffed.

“Hey! I can’t have a hero dying on me,” Deadpool whined.

It was quiet.

“You know, I should say that you should never do that,” Deadpool said. “Never try to throw your life around like that, because that’s emotional abuse.”

“You shouldn’t talk!” exclaimed Peter.

“But ya know, ya know, I’m actually glad that you did that, Spidey,” Deadpool went on, ignoring Peter. “Because now I know, we’ve got to watch out for each other,” he said, swinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders.

“Are you holding me hostage?” Peter gaped. He shoved lightly at Deadpool, but in the end, he felt warmer than before.

“You tried to hold me hostage,” Deadpool said. His fingers on the arm around Peter’s shoulder, wiggled. “Let’s just call it even, and we are chilling at my place.”

They did chill at his place.

If you call chill, Peter glaring icily at the TV and Deadpool pretending to be relaxing. Or maybe he actually was relaxing. Peter wanted to take off the suit because it was getting on his nerves. Stifling, really, sticking everywhere to his skin and he felt like Deadpool could see every curve and piece of fat that shouldn’t be there in someone that depends on speed to swing them around. I know, I eat too much.

“So. I heal,” Deadpool said.

“Great,” Peter said, voice cutting. “That means I can just--get carved up. Get shot at. Get shot. Or starve myself. Or whatever I want. Again and again and again. And it doesn't matter because it heals.”

Deadpool stared at him. Peter felt the weight of his eyes. Peter wasn't sure if he was shaking or not. He felt too sick to shake. He felt he might burst or just sink. Either or.

“Baby boy,” Deadpool said, “don't do that.”

“Why not?” Peter asked. “If you do it. What makes you think you're better than me?”

“I'm worse than you,” Deadpool said.

Peter did shake. He could see it in his own hands. “I'm a killer too.”

“I'm sure I've killed more,” Deadpool said.

“Anf that matters how?” Peter almost yelled. He felt like he could throw over the couch. Deadpool looked happy almost at his reaction. That made Peter even more annoyed. “Stop grinning!”

“Any-thing you can do I can do be-tter,” Deadpool sang. “Any-thing you can kill I can kill moreeeee.”

Peter started going to Deadpool’s apartment all the time. They couldn’t get rid of each other. To think, before, they had been strangers. Enemies, even--and they were still enemies. 

But Peter couldn’t get it out of his mind that Deadpool was going to fall over the edge of the building. It didn’t matter if Deadpool was going to come back or not-- just the thought of the man throwing himself off a rooftop, intentionally for the pain for the disappearance-- Peter couldn’t tell if it was envy or sickness or fear, but he couldn’t stand it, and he needed to make sure Deadpool was alive.

“Just because you're used to it, just because you--you can heal or whatever, doesn’t make your pain mean less than others,” Peter said. He felt his fists clench and unclench.

“I think you’re being too idealistic.” Deadpool hummed, stuck his feet on the couch. There was blood coming out of his side. Peter wanted to throw up.

“Some people’s lives do mean more than others,” Deadpool said. “Let’s admit it. And anyway, if it came down it, and there was some rando going to die or me, I’m the one that should die. Because I’ll come back anyway so nobody has to stay dead, woohoo, happily ever after!” He threw his arms in the air. “I mean, I wouldn’t really care but according to your ethic anyway.” He sat down and put on the TV.

Some My Little Pony episode started playing. Colorful ponies skipped around on the screen. They were having some kind of happy moment. Then it turned sad. Then it was happy again, with songs.

“I don’t give a fuck!” Peter burst. He turned off the TV, and stood in front of it, looming over Deadpool who was sprawled on the couch.

“Uhhhhh,” Deadpool said.

Peter inserted himself between Deadpool’s legs and caged him in. Peter’s hands digging into the couch on both sides of Deadpool’s head.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh,” Deadpool said. Deadpool looked like he might try to wiggle away, so Peter pushed in closer, could feel Deadpool’s thighs on his own spandex.

He felt like Deadpool was always skittering around, slipping away.

Deadpool stared at him through the mask.

Peter could hardly breathe. “Fuck you,” Peter said. “Seriously. Fuck. You.”

“Would love to Baby Boy,” Deadpool mumbled. ‘But uh...didn’t know you were into this kind of stuff?”

Peter was ready to pull out his hair. But he was wearing his mask. Instead, he threw his arms in the air, backed away from the couch, and he walked back and forth. “No,” Peter said.

“Look,” Peter said. “Some people, some kids, don’t feel any pain. They can’t. Brain doesn’t work that way. Does that make it okay for them to hurt themselves? For other people to hurt them, because they don’t feel it?”

“I dunno,” Deadpool drawled. “Look, Spidey,” he exhaled. “I dunno how to break this to you, but hey. I’m a bad person.” Deadpool said.

“Not to me!” Peter yelled. “Not to me. Do you know why I don’t kill people? Because no matter how bad a person is, to themselves or to other people, there’s probably at least one person that would be upset if that person died. That person meant something to somebody, I’m sure. And you mean something to me.”

Peter couldn’t stop talking, didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. “Am I not enough? Is that what you’re saying?” The words came out of Peter and Peter couldn’t even understand what he was asking. Why he was asking it. My voice cracked, Peter realized.

Peter realized he was shaking. What am I doing? “Am I not enough?” And he was asking it again. “Am I not...not…”

Of course you’re not enough, is what Peter was thinking-- is what Peter was certain Deadpool was thinking about Peter. But at least lie, Peter thought. Lie to my face mother fucker, you better fucking ass lie or I swear to God I’ll I’ll…

“Breathe, Spidey boy,” Deadpool whispered to Peter.

Peter felt sick. “Maybe I’m sick,” Peter choked out. “Maybe I’m sick of ascribing to the world’s ‘correct values’ or whatever.” Peter made air quotes. “I don’t care about your stupid moral arguments. I care about you!” Peter yelled. “I fucking care about you, and--and, if you died, I swear to god, I’d kill myself and that’s not even a joke--”

“Stop saying that,” Deadpool ground out.

“Then you stop saying you’re going to do it, or arguing that it’s okay if you did it.” Peter felt his eyes start to burn.

Deadpool stood up. Peter looked at him, then at the floor.

“If you do it, I don’t see why I can’t,” Peter whispered. He felt himself stumbling. Over words and the ground. “I’m a bad person too. I’m not human. In comparison to other people, other people would be missed more than me,” Peter said. “I’m just a hero. Heroes are supposed to die.”


End file.
